Work Text:
Ghost’s phone vibrates.
There’s a message from Izna that reads, CONFIDENTIAL: DO NOT OPEN IN PUBLIC. Then it vibrates again as she sends him an attachment.
His thumb hovers over the screen, the thumbnail only showing a bare shoulder and her hair flowing freely down her back. He recognizes the backdrop–their apartment–and that only intrigues him more. He’s self-conscious of the way he looks left and right, making sure he really is alone, as though anyone would bother him right now. But the room’s empty, doors locked up, and only the dim lights buzz insistently to break the silence.
He presses play.
The camera starts around her face and shoulders. “You’re probably busy, so I won’t nick much of your time.” She’s sat on their bed as the camera pans down to reveal that she’s completely naked, and she lets the phone linger for a moment, spreading her legs. “Can’t believe Price took you out without me.” She holds the phone and crawls forward, then sets it in some kind of holder and shuffles back to lean against the headboard, the one she’s been cuffed to more times than they can remember, her legs spreading wide, heels tucking up around her arse. “You better come back soon.”
His breath catches in his throat. It’s impossible to look away, especially when her hand slides between her legs, fingers running down her slit. Even in the limited light, he can see how wet she is. And he knows how it feels, what it’s like to touch her when she’s like this. He’s not even twenty seconds into the video and he can already feel himself growing hard.
Izna’s fingers rub in slow circles, slowly building herself up. “What would you do if you were here, right now? I bet I know. You’d drag me down the other end of the bed and fuck me on your fingers.” She cups her breast, palming and squeezing it gently. “Your hands are so much bigger than mine, it’s not fair.”
Jesus, he knows. He thinks about it constantly, especially on long missions when he has too much time to spend in his own head. It’s easier to think about than his worst thoughts, instead imagining her splayed out on their bed, tangled up in the throes of ecstasy as he thrusts his fingers into her, making her moan and shiver.
He’d give anything to be there now.
She lets her fingers stay on her clit for almost half a minute until she’s trembling, and then she slides them down, three of them, to push into herself. It’s not nearly as stretched as she would be if it were his fingers, but she enjoys it, her hand grabbing for the headboard to ground herself as she languidly works them in and out of herself, the sound loud in the otherwise still air.
“God, I need you to fucking come back,” she groans, her palm stroking along her clit. “Tell Price to hurry the fuck up.”
He wants to. He will. He’ll personally see to the mission’s conclusion by any means possible if it means getting back to her immediately. He watches her work herself, wishes beyond all belief that he was between her legs–mouth, fingers, or cock; it doesn’t matter–drawing all those sounds out of her.
Iz sucks her fingers into her mouth and then drops them to tease around her nipple, her head falling back as her right hand speeds up. “Simon,” she pants, hips thrusting into her own touch. “Fuck, please, love, I really can’t take it without you!”
He’s so hard it hurts. Watching this is a special form of torture, and not one he was ever trained to properly deal with.
Fuck . He wants to call her right now and talk her through all this (as if she hadn’t already done it), listening to her come right in his ear. He wants it to be because of him. Her voice gets louder, like she’s right next to him, and she pulls her fingers out to rub at her clit again, rapid circles, three fingers pressing down on the nub until she’s squirming against the sheets, skin gleaming with sweat and blood flush.
“It’s not the same, it’s not good enough, you fucking ruined me, English boy,” she groans, “so fucking come back and keep on doing it.”
Her back arches, her toes begin to curl-
-and she draws her hands away, denying herself an orgasm for him, breathing ragged as she rests for a moment against the pillows.
“Come back and finish me off,” she breathes, then she crawls up the bed, reaches for the phone, and switches off the video.
Holy shit.
Holy shit. Ghost sits there in stunned silence, seeing that last frozen frame of the video–just a blur of her hand–and feels like he’s had the air knocked out of him. He doesn’t know what to do aside from stare, and considers a dozen messages to send back to her. Everything ranging from ‘ how dare you stop ’ to ‘ I’m on my way and I don’t care what Price says ’.
His phone vibrates again.
Waiting for you, Iz texts. Will be home all week.
His fingers fumble on the screen a few times, producing too many typos before he manages, Coming back ASAP.
He needs to find Price right away and demand they readjust their mission dates. The sooner he can be on the plane back home, the better.
Another message. The longer you wait, the more I send.
Christ. Ghost doesn’t know if he can handle it. At the same time, he wants to see it. He wants to know what kind of void he left behind when Price called him here.
Show me how bad you miss me, he sends back.
No. The response is immediate. Going to make sure you know how fucking insane I’m going here without you, Simon Riley. Now hurry the fuck up and complete your mission.
Iz sends another two videos before he finally makes it home, one of herself playing with the vibrator that’s typically strapped to her thigh and forcing orgasms out of her, the other of herself clearly soaked after a shower and riding the one dildo she still owns after they both decided they mutually enjoyed it. Neither times she makes herself cum, but she begs louder and harder in both of them than she did in the first.
They drive Ghost half-mad. He watches them several times over, each time memorising the looks on her face as she brings herself so close to an orgasm, but brutally cuts it off. In a word, it’s agony .
He doesn’t tell Price exactly why he wants to expedite the mission. Granted, he feels like Price knows it has something to do with Izna. Like she said, he doesn’t know why she was left out either, but that absence feels like a chasm that grows every hour she’s not with him.
So he puts his all into finishing it up. Not since his early days of SAS, when he was far younger and more angry has he approached anything quite like this. During the day, he makes all the necessary connections for sake of intelligence, intercepts what they need, plans insertions, and takes down their targets with ferocious quickness. It’s one-and-done, the way he’s accustomed to performing. This time, however, it doesn’t feel like enough.
But it works. They’re two days ahead of schedule, and Price notices. Hell, they all do, but Price gives him a look before signing off on paperwork declaring the mission accomplished.
“Got something to go back to?” Price asks.
Ghost gives him a terse nod and a short, “Yeah,” that probably speaks volumes.
“Thought so. You’ve had a fire lit under your arse for days. I’m not gonna ask.” He signs the forms with little ceremony, handing them over with the typical two-sentence gratitude for Ghost’s service.
All Ghost can think of are the images burned firmly into his grey matter, of Izna fucking herself on her fingers, her vibrator, the dildo. He can see water droplets on her skin, and his jaw aches to chase them with his tongue. If the documents crumple in his grip, he doesn’t notice.
Got a fourth for you if it takes another day, the message she sends warns. Good news is, the moment you touch me I’ll explode.
That a promise? he sends back. The thought makes him ache even worse.
Better be on your way or I send it now.
He sends her a quick, somewhat blurry picture of the forms, then a screenshot of his flight information. It’s not the cheapest flight, but he could give less than a damn.
Ghost knows it’s redundant, but he texts, Wait for me.
The response comes a minute later, just a picture of her favourite lingerie spread out on their bed, forest green silk and black lace, the whole nine yards with no words attached.
And he can’t offer up much more than a very eloquent, Fuck . Then he adds, I’ll be there.
Even if the flight was only an hour, it would be too long. Ghost spends most of the flight frustrated beyond belief, resisting the urge to replay the videos and risk his seat neighbour glancing over his shoulder and getting into his business. He’s already awful at sharing, and that thought makes it worse.
He does allow himself one trip to the lavatory, holing himself up in the small space and wrenching his jeans down to palm himself through his briefs, watching the vibrator video on silent. Briefly, he considers taking video of himself and sending it back to her through the plane’s awful WiFi connection, but he thinks better of it on several fronts. He doesn’t let himself cum, which heightens the tension he’s built for himself.
He uses the WiFi only once to send her an ETA, but the text is rigid and almost clinical. No details, no hint to his thoughts that are almost obsessively on her now. It feels like he’s tidally-locked to her gravitational pull, that somehow she’s the one pulling the plane into descension.
As Soap would say, he’s down bad.
Vaguely, he registers the pilot welcoming them to London and reporting the weather. It’s all secondary to him–even tertiary. Instead, he counts his breaths between the last announcement and the feeling of wheels on tarmac. Then it’s just waiting to taxi to the terminal, get the all clear, and make it through customs as quickly as he can.
He gets his carry-on bag, slinging it over his shoulder and–quite plainly–storming through the airport like he’s on a mission. Once he gets to arrivals, he scans the crowd with the same level of observance he would normally reserve for recon, and he can’t explain away how desperate he feels to see her.
Iz is standing near the back, close to the exit, so that the light from the windows illuminates her from behind. She’s wearing a long green coat that comes down to her knees, and black leather boots which meet the bottom of the green wool. There’s a coy smile on her face the second she spots him, and she leans casually back against the glass. Expectant.
He walks up to her, passing couples reuniting and kids jumping into their parents’ arms. Part of him wants to kiss her; another wants to drag her into some dark, quiet part of the airport and have his way with her right then and there. Instead, he says, “Izna,” in a low voice, eyes fixed on her face.
“Simon,” she counters. “Ready to go home?”
Yes. Now. Immediately. “Only if you are,” he says. “Thought we might hang around a bit. Take in the sights.”
“Maybe have dinner,” she adds, “go somewhere nice. Spend the rest of the day out and about with no privacy.”
“None at all,” he agrees. He walks toward the doors, out to the line of taxis and Ubers waiting by the curb. He gets the first one they walk up to, not wasting any more time. At the very least, he opens the door for her. Iz blows him a kiss as she climbs in.
After she’s given the cabbie their address, she leans back in her seat and clips in her seatbelt. Her eyes meet his for a moment, and she pretends to scratch her thigh, rucking up her coat just far enough that the cabbie won’t see it, but to clearly display to Simon: she’s got nylon on underneath, and it goes too far up for there to be anything else.
His eyes follow her hand, then the curve of her leg and the shadow under her coat. There’s no mistaking what she’s wearing. His hands curl into fists on his thighs, resisting every urge to touch her now. If he starts, he knows, there’s no way he can stop.
“ Izna ,” he says like a warning. Low, stormy.
“Don’t get us kicked out of the cab, Simon,” she teases, and twitches her coat back down. But her hand reaches for his, bare skin, a silent I missed you in the way she wordlessly pleads for his touch even if it’s not quite the kind he might want.
He can’t deny her that. In one motion, he weaves their fingers together, feeling her smaller hand in his, the warmth of her skin.
Yes, he wants her. That’s a given. But he also missed her in every possible way; a phantom limb that he can always feel even if he can’t see it.
Silently, and not looking directly at her, he squeezes her hand. It’s reassurance, an I missed you, too when he can’t say it aloud.
“You two been apart for long?” the cabbie asks like he’s desperate to know. “Look like you just came back from a bloody war or somethin’, mate.”
“A couple of weeks,” Iz says casually. “Business trip.”
“Aw, seems like a long time when you’re in love,” the cabbie replies, looking up wistfully into the rearview mirror.
Ghost sighs through his nose and nods, then looks at Izna, studying her face. Yeah, it did feel too long.
“We got by,” Iz chuckles, and her eyes meet his again, mischief in the bright green. It’s like she’s sending her thoughts into his mind, conjuring up images of her naked and desperate and soaked, waiting for him to come back to her.
“Blimey, no wonder he’s with you,” the cabbie laughs, “someone’s got to talk for ‘im, eh?”
Iz grins.
Even that one glance makes an hour-long car ride feel like an eternity. And he does imagine her underneath him, the feel of her skin under the callouses of his fingers, the taste of her on his tongue. Subconsciously, he rubs his thumb over her knuckles, tracing each one, trying to keep all of his urges neatly contained.
“Yeah,” he finally says. “I’m lucky to have her.”
“Well, you look after that one, mate,” their driver insists. “A good woman’s worth her weight in gold, honest.”
He chats casually with them for the rest of the journey, and Iz tips him heavily when they finally reach their block. The sun is starting to set, warm rays casting over them. Iz waits for Simon to collect his things, and then she takes his hand again and leads him to the door, unlocking it to let them inside.
It’s instant relief the moment he’s in the door. And the second it shuts, his mask is up, mouth claiming hers as fast as he can. His bag still hangs off his shoulders, and he doesn’t care. This is far more important.
Iz cups his face, touching bare skin, rough stubble, warmth, Simon. The other hand goes around the back of his neck, and she presses up against him, her body going molten in his presence, standing up on her tiptoes to close the gaps in their height. Her moan fills the entryway of their home, broken and muffled by the kiss.
He drops his bag, not caring how hard it hits the floor. One hand goes to her waist, finding the divot above her hip and tracing it with his fingers. The other cups her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek. He takes in every part of her–the feel of her under his hands and his lips, the smell of her, everything . The mission didn’t take that long in reality, but it felt like an age.
“Missed you,” he says against her lips. “So fuckin’ much.”
Iz grabs at his coat and starts tugging it down his shoulders. “Missed you too,” she breathes, and when his coat is halfway down his arms she kisses him again, fingertips tracing the scars on his cheeks.
He leans into her touch without a thought. Once, he was hesitant to let her touch him at all, especially his face. Now, there’s no one he trusts more.
“Thought of you the whole time,” he says, breathless. “Every minute. You drove me mad , Izna.”
“You wanna know what was in that last video?” she pants, her fingertips in his hair.
He nods, closing his eyes under her touch.
Iz reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. A moment later, his buzzes, and she steps back, dropping her coat on the floor to reveal that forest-green silk and black lace, except it’s just the garter belt and stockings, because she’s not wearing any underwear. No bra, no knickers.
“Watch it later,” she suggests, and her boots echo on the floor as she walks towards the bedroom.
He follows her like he’s magnetised, eyes fixed on her body, the way her hips sway, the hem where her stockings end, the curve of her ass. He’s a man transfixed, bloody possessed.
"Where's our boy?" he thinks to ask.
"With my parents." Iz heads up the stairs, unclipping the hair claw to let it all hang free. “Coming?”
“Yeah, Iz,” he says. He thinks he says it, because his mind feels like it’s shorting out completely. The sight of her–her hair rippling like a wave down her bare back, all of it–is pulled straight from his dreams, every fantasy he’s entertained over the course of the mission. He has to blink hard, resists pinching himself to make sure this isn’t another dream, a delusion he’s so sure he’s kept up since he has no clue what he did to deserve her. In a scrape of sound, he says, “Right behind you.”
God, the way his voice drops when he's hot for it- Izna shivers, biting her lip as she heads into the bedroom. The curtains are already closed; she left them like that when she left the house, and it just means that she can turn around and walk backwards towards the bed, eyes on him the whole time.
He follows step for step–she’s a fixed point in his vision, a beacon. Some primal part of him wants to push her down to the bed now, fuck her until she screams, fuck her through her screams until they’re both exhausted. He wants to draw out every last atom of pleasure in her until there’s nothing left to give, and even after that, he wants more .
But he wants this to last so long, so he doesn’t rush.
“Iz,” he says, strained. What he means to say after, he doesn’t know.
“Please touch me,” she begs him, decorum and pretense out the window. She sits back on the bed and spreads her thighs and they glisten because she’s soaking wet for him.
He can’t resist that request. He braces himself with one knee on the bed, hand already going up her thigh. His fingers touch the garter belt, and he tugs it experimentally. “S’that just for me?”
Izna’s head falls back, a strangled moan escaping her lips at the touch of his fingers on her bare skin. “Wanted to look pretty for you,” she teases. “Don’t you rip it.”
He strokes her thigh. “Wouldn’t dare,” he replies, then leans in to kiss a trail along her collarbone. As he does, his hand drifts from her thigh to her slit–not pushing in, but teasing along the wet length of it, listening to the sound of it fill the room.
“I- spent the whole fucking d-day,” her voice stammers as his fingers touch her folds, “driving myself crazy for you, Si. Almost- recorded the whole thing again.”
“Yeah?” he mutters, amused, against her skin. “Somethin’ else to torture me with?”
She reaches for him, fingertips running all over his face, through his hair, then hooking underneath his shirt and dragging up his stomach through the forest of body hair, some of it bisected in places by wounds. “You could’ve wanked off,” she protests.
He helps her take the shirt off, then sighs at the feeling of her hands on him. “I almost did,” he finally admits. “On the plane here. Nearly sent you a video of it.”
Iz goes for his jeans next, tempting as it is to sit herself against one and ride it until she cums, because she’s been edging herself all week waiting for him. “Do it next time,” she pleads. “I want to see you.”
He pulls his jeans down, cock straining against his briefs, wet patch visible even in the dim. Discarding his jeans behind him, the briefs quickly follow. It’s too long to tease with pulling them down slowly or letting her remove them. Iz immediately wraps her fingers around him, stroking him rapidly.
“I’m not fucking around with anything else,” she groans, her other hand on the back of his neck as she shuffles closer to try and get him inside her. “Later. Right now I just want this.”
He hisses out an, “Oh, fuck ,” at the first touch, leaning into her.
Iz locks her thighs around his waist and presses the tip of his cock against her folds, mouth meeting his. “I need you,” she begs, “I’ve been going fucking insane without you, love, I need you to do whatever the fuck you want with me and I don’t care if it hurts.”
It’s almost too much. All that time without her, watching those fucking videos, knowing she’d be there if she could–it drives him damn near out of his mind. Pushing into her, full to the hilt, feels like the most natural next step, and he can’t help the groan punched out of him at the feeling. She’s soaked , immeasurably warm around him.
He lays on her, crushing his lips against hers as he tries to remember how to set a rhythm, how to do more than just bask in the feeling of being inside her. Iz immediately writhes against him, hips rocking against his, clit pushing against his pelvis, her moans abruptly loud and her fingers tangling into his hair. She’s as loud as anyone could expect of a woman who’s denied herself an orgasm all week, and she shivers around him.
“Si,” she whimpers, clutching him to her. “Harder, please, please, I want to bruise, I want it to hurt when you’re done!”
Simon snarls at that, all his tension fighting for pure release. The pace he sets is brutal, hips snapping into hers, gripping her like she’ll slip away the second he lets go. And he won’t . No force on the whole fucking planet could make him. He drops his head, mouth on her neck, biting down so there’s no mistake who she belongs to.
Iz sobs underneath him, tilting her head to let his teeth mark her neck all he wants. She’s so full of him, impossibly stretched, with him towering over her and she’s seen Simon Riley kill men with his bare hands, but those big palms of his are fixed to her skin and she knows she’s safe with him. The pain of his teeth is dangerous, though, in how good it feels. She doesn’t want to cum too quickly, but she’s been her own worst enemy, tormenting herself the whole time he’s been away.
Her nails rake down his back, heels digging into his arse as she feels the unrelenting pace he’s setting rub right up against her sweet spot. The hours spent between leaving home and coming back are nothing compared to how quick her boyfriend can get her off.
“S-so fucking good,” she whines, “f-fuck, you’re so fucking good, I missed you, I felt fucking empty-!”
“Bet you did,” he growls into her ear. “That little toy of yours wasn’t enough, huh?” He punctuates that with a hard thrust, one that makes him lightheaded. He feels insatiable, a predator catching a scent and chasing it without pause.
She does this to him. Draws out all the parts of him he used to hate–the ugly, violent pieces that he tried his damnedest to hide away. She coaxes them out, turns them into something else. All that anger and frustration, she turns into passion, into these relentless thrusts and a burning need to finish inside her, to mark her up and make her his in every possible way.
“You ruined me, you English fucker,” she growls, hands reaching down to squeeze a handful of arse before her nails scrape their way back up his spine and tangle into his hair. “L-look at me, look at what you did, I- I don’t f-fucking ever want to go back!”
God, she’s going to cum, and soon, and she wants to hold out longer, to chase that need a little bit more, but it’s too good and she knows he’s far from done after he cums.
He grins, fucking wolfish , baring his teeth for her. He can feel her getting close, tightening around his cock. It’s a drug straight to his system, burning through him like the feeling of her nails on his back.
And in the heat of it all, he brings his mouth close to her ear, breath hot on her neck. “You ruined me right back, Iz,” he admits in a low snarl of sound. “Can’t have anything that isn’t you.”
Her heart’s thudding for a different reason now, her face burning, and she kisses him because she can’t help it, they were almost just a one-off fling and then she had to pine for him for half a decade, and now she can’t bear to be without him. She cums like that, thinking exactly that, she can’t be without him, tearing her mouth off his to let him hear her scream his name because they both love that.
He fucks her through it, watches her intently as she screams. She clenches so tight , and he feels his own release approaching rapidly in her wake.
“That’s it,” he says, moans . He watches her and commits every part of her to memory. “Fuckin’ scream for me.”
It quickly gets to be too much, too sensitive, but Iz lets it carry on and she just squirms, pressed up against him, toes curling. "Your turn," she sobs out, "please please please, fucking wreck me!"
His hips slam into hers, and when he finally cums, it’s a storm rolling through him. He shudders, groaning, his grip on her hips tight enough to bruise. The sheer force of it all–of her –is enough to knock the breath out of him. He empties into her, pace stuttering, then going still.
He stays inside of her as he catches his breath, laying atop her with one arm supporting himself so he doesn’t crush her underneath him. One hand finds her hair, threading his fingers through it, stroking along her scalp as he tries to find his words again. Iz nuzzles into his touch, eyes finding his.
"Hello," she murmurs. "Nice to see you again."
“Mmn,” is all he can say. Eloquent and to the point.
“Good mission?” she asks. “Do anything fun?”
He shakes his head, then slowly pulls out of her and rolls to Izna’s side. He curls around her, head pressed against her shoulder.
The mission passed in a blur; if he was pressed to give exact details of what went down, he’d fail miserably. Once she sent him those videos, everything in his head took a backseat. “Did it,” he mutters. “S’all that mattered.”
“Yeah,” her lips curl up into a grin. “I guess you’re right.” His cum is dripping out of her, onto the bedsheets, but Iz doesn’t care. “Guess I know how to get you back home quick next time Price steals you from me for a bit.”
He grunts, nuzzling into her. “Don’t make a habit of it,” he says. It’s worded like a warning, but there’s too much warmth in his voice. “I’ll never get anything done.”
She turns her head for another kiss, a teasing look in her eyes. “Hmm. Maybe we should just insist we never get separated.”
“I think Price figured that out this last time,” he replies. He wraps an arm around her waist, fingers following the curve above her hip. Already, he feels that stirring , the need to touch her all over again. He kisses her, a little harder now, before muttering, “Shower?” against her lips.
She shakes her head, putting her fingers on his lips. “Tub’s big enough for us both,” she points out. “Unless you’re scared of leaking through the floor when I ride you in the bath?”
“We could flood the whole place if that’s what you plan to do,” he says against her fingers.
“Hmm.” She thinks about it. “Shower, then. But you’re paying the water bill.” She knows that now he’s cum, got the edge off of it, he’s going to last, and Iz knows she’s going to get fucked into the tiles until she can’t cum any more. At that point, he’s probably going to carry her out of the bathroom and drape her over the bed and then eat her out until her legs don’t work, and the thought makes her clench down around him.
“Happily,” he replies, lowering his head so he kisses her fingers while they’re pressed against her own mouth. “Your legs working? Or do you need me to carry you in there?”
She slides her arms back around him. "Mmm, carry me," she says with a pout.
Simon lifts her effortlessly, positioning her so her legs are wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck. His left hand splays across her lower back, the other cupping the back of her head. He gives her one kiss on the cheek before carrying to the shower.
“Gonna have to set you down a second, unless you want those garters soaked,” he tells her.
Iz wriggles. “Yeah, soaked stockings in a shower? Not a great idea.”
He sets her down, letting her undress the rest of the way while he turns on the shower. Once the temperature feels right, he slips under the spray, leaving space for her toward the tiled wall. He’s already getting hard again, his imagination two steps ahead of him in thinking of ways he can fuck her in the small space.
She’s lucky his cum didn’t get far enough to touch the stockings, and Iz tosses them onto the floor, wordlessly moving her hand to gesture for him to turn around as she walks over to the shower.
He does as she asks without question, although he can already feel heat crawling through him that he can’t ascribe just to the water. Iz gets in with him and drops to her knees, tongue running along his hip. Her mouth kisses along his thigh, then swirls the tip of his hardening cock with her tongue. His broad back blocks most of the stream of water, so she’s free to slip all of him into her mouth and immediately begin to bob her head. Neither of them need any kind of warmup, and as she braces against him using one hand, with the other she spreads their combined mess over her clit and starts to rub in rough circles.
“ Fuck, Iz,” Simon breathes, reaching down to comb his fingers through her wet hair, pushing some of it out of her eyes.
It’s too good, riding on the leftover sensitivity. Combined with the sight of her hand slipping between her legs, working her clit like that– Christ, it’s any wonder he made it as long as he did without her.
She moans against him, slides him out of her mouth to let him watch her tongue lap up and down the length of him, fingers stoking her own need back to fullness. Right now she isn’t sure where she wants him- in her mouth, leaving her a mess, between her thighs. She wants him to choose for her, to use that deadly strength to pin her where he wants her and take her. That was why she tormented him so badly; she wants to wake up The Ghost, the other kind of bloodlust he likes to keep under wraps.
Her big green eyes gaze up at his dark ones as she cups his balls, tonguing the underside of him, teasing him on purpose.
That motion punches out a choked noise, forcing him to brace one arm on the tile wall next to him. He knows what she’s doing–the same thing she did while he was away, coaxing him with promise . Those videos, the way she looked at the camera lens and how she looks at him now, and now this bookend of physical touch pushing him to the brink.
Which is exactly what she wants.
So he weaves his fingers through her hair, gripping it just enough to tug, but more to the point it’s to hold her head in place. If she wants to get fucked, then he’ll do it how he sees fit.
Izna’s mind empties.
It’s the easiest way to explain what happens next. Her mouth wraps around his cock and her mind goes blank and she bobs as best she can, but Ghost is in charge of her now and there’s nothing else that needs to be done. She moans, fingers still teasing herself rapidly, and she’s building herself up to cum right as she wrenches her hand away again, whining around him in protest against her own self-inflicted desires.
He curses the moment she moans, feeling it vibrate along his cock as he fucks her mouth. Her whine earns a full-fledged, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” from him, grip on her head tightening. The sensation is ecstasy, cockhead hitting the back of her throat, her warm mouth enveloping him entirely. He only jerks her head back once, just to look at her face, her open mouth waiting for him.
“God, look at you,” he mutters, other hand dropping low so his thumb can brush over her bottom lip. “Want it so bad , don’t you, Izzie?”
“I’m all yours,” she rasps out, “I spent this whole bloody time driving you insane for a reason, Simon, now fucking treat me like I wound you up all week.”
Hearing her say it sparks something in him. He drops his voice low, his sharp command tone cutting in. “On your feet,” he growls. “Turn around and put your hands on the wall.”
Iz obeys, palms flat against the cold tile, spreading her thighs.
Simon wants to fuck her right there, fill her up, make her scream until it echoes around the bathroom and annoys their neighbors. He’s aroused enough, hard enough. But fuck if he didn’t miss her and didn’t miss this. Instead, he goes to his knees behind her, mouth on her cunt with no ceremony leading up to it.
She thought she was getting another hard fuck, but instead his stubble is scraping over her as his lips and tongue work her over. Iz shudders against the tiles, pressing her face into them to shove her arse back into Simon’s face, shaky groans filling the air as he eats her out like this. God, he’s got the perfect fucking mouth.
“Simon oh my god,” tumbles out of her in desperate gasps. “Yes please!”
He hums against her, vaguely in revenge for what she did with her mouth. The steam from the shower makes everything headier, and he feels drunk on it–on this . He laps over her clit, then fucks her opening with his tongue, tasting the tang of her and wondering–again–how he possibly made it this long without her.
Iz doesn’t take long to cum, thighs shaking either side of his face, legs unsteady as she almost falls. It’s so good. It’s impossibly good. Her desperate cries echo in the tiny space.
“Fuck me,” she groans, “please, god, I need it to hurt, I need to remember it again.”
He savours the taste of her for a moment longer, then stands behind her, hand stroking over her ass. “Greedy,” he teases. “All that time you were sending me those videos. Turns out I could’ve been sending them to you, eh?”
“Tell you what,” she bites her lip, pressing her arse into his touch, “the next one, I shoved the toy up where you’re playing right now.”
“Oh?” His hand lowers, feeling her, imagining. “Thought it could replace me?”
“Nothing can replace you and you know it,” she groans, “now fuck me before I pounce on you.” Not that she really could; she’s an entire foot shorter than he is, but it’s worth a try.
“I’d like to see that happen,” he says, more than a little smug. But he doesn’t make her wait much longer, aligning himself with her before thrusting in to the hilt. He groans the moment he’s in, again caught up in how warm she is, how perfect .
“Fucking try,” she moans, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of being full again. “Mm, god. Simon please, I just want it to hurt.”
That he can do. He grabs her hips, thumbs pressing hard into her skin. The pace he sets is brutal, punishing . All he can think is that it’s what she deserves for sending the videos, for driving him half out of his mind with desire, for making him cut his fucking mission–his job –short because she was too needy to wait for him. When he squeezes his eyes shut, he can still see the vibrator between her legs, and when he opens his eyes again, he sees red .
Iz can feel it, there’s something different about him now, his hips are slapping against her arse hard enough to bruise as his thumbs dig into her skin and the bite of pain contrasts with the relentless pace he’s setting as he fucks her. If anyone overhears them they’ll worry about what’s happening to her, but she can’t keep quiet. One of her hands drops to her clit, circling it as rough as his strokes, and her fractured groan fills the small room as waves of fresh ecstasy wash over her.
“Simon,” she whimpers, “fuck, more!”
He feels her hand beneath him, working herself like this isn’t enough. Simon grits his teeth and grabs her wrist, bending over her so he can hiss in her ear, “No, you’ve done that enough. Thought you could replace me.”
He replaces her hand with his, callouses from years worth of work harsh against her skin, index and middle finger building friction on her clit like he means to start a fire between them. At the same time, he fucks her hard enough that the muscles in his hips burn with the effort, an ache he savours.
Iz almost screams, a shudder rocking her, full-bodied and relentless. “Bite me,” she begs as her last proper coherent thought as she feels her body begin to wind up to orgasm, starting with the curling of her toes, then her shaking calves, trembling thighs, the muscles of her walls clenching up around him as her back arches. Ghost’s got the hands of a killer and right now they’re dragging her to her death, her previously swallowed scream erupting from her.
There’s no quip he can come up with, no smug response about how she’s so desperate for him that she wants him to hurt her like this. Everything in Simon’s head is caught in white-out conditions, an unchecked storm howling through his head as he fucks her. Instead, he acquiesces, teeth sharp on her shoulder, biting down hard enough to bruise.
It’s Ghost currently biting her, bruising her, leaving her body electric with overstimulation and hoarse from crying out the name Simon as he fucks her through her orgasm. Iz should be scared, but she isn’t, all she can do is moan for him as he drills her like a relentless machine. Her mouth is begging but not anything solid. There’s a masochistic little gleam in her that wants her to tell him to fuck her up the arse, and the words are out of her mouth before she can think about the logic of it.
He growls in response, every word falling short and giving way to action. He pulls out of her, then thrusts into her ass with just enough preparation. She’s so fucking tight, all-encompassing, begging him to use all of her. His fingers don't move off her clit, his other hand still pressing her arm behind her back, and Iz can't stop crying, his name ringing off the walls.
God, she's missed this. He's never used her this hard and she's addicted already. She knows he won't damage her, and she was so wet that every thrust in and out of her arse is just prepared enough. She silently thanks her libido for making her crave the sensation of pressure for the last video.
"Oh fuck me, love," she breathes, "god, please, fucking cum in me, Simon, please!"
It’s all animalistic beyond that point–wild, unchecked thrusts slamming his hips into her ass, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the tile walls. His snarls barely take the form of words, curses, her name. And when he does finally come, he wraps an arm around her waist from behind, crushing her to his chest as he bucks into her, biting down on her shoulder at the same moment and leaving what will inevitably turn into a crescent-shaped bruise.
All the while, his hand works her clit, but his pace is scattered, frenetic.
Iz comes with him, falling apart, her legs useless. The only thing keeping her upright is Simon Riley, her Ghost. She just about feels his cum drip out of her before it’s washed away by the constant stream of hot water. The noises she’s making, fractured and helpless, continue even as his rapid fingers don’t leave her poor, abused clit be. It’s too sensitive, but Iz hasn’t cum in a week, and Ghost isn’t the merciful type.
And he doesn’t let up. Even after he’s cum inside her, when she’s reduced to those sounds and loose in his arms, his fingers work her relentlessly. He stays inside her, feeling her drip around him. It’s fucking bliss to him, pushing her to the edge, then dragging her over it repeatedly.
Iz can’t even tell him to stop, she’s crying in pleasure, the world is entirely reduced to the sensation of his fingers. Her face is pressed into the tiles, her free hand scraping over them. “Simon,” she sobs out, as her next orgasm wracks her with shudders, “love, please!”
“Please, what, Izna?” he growls into her ear. “Use your words, love.”
“I can’t,” she’s shuddering, turning her head, trying to meet his mouth with her own, “it’s too much, it’s too much!”
“That’s not an answer.” He follows this up with quicker strokes, harder . The feeling of her muscles contracting around him is almost enough to get him hard again.
Oh god, it feels amazing. And it hurts. Her arse is going to be bruised for days. She grabs at his jaw with her free hand to try and bring her mouth to his, because if she’s going to scream in pleasure she wants to kiss him at least.
He appeases her, but keeps the kiss deceptively chaste. More of a peck on the lips, a brush of his against hers. All the while, his hand moves at a frenetic pace.
“Ask for it,” he breathes against her mouth. “ Nicely. Let me know how bad you want it.”
“Please,” she sobs, “please, Simon,” her legs are going to give out, and he’s not even going to give her a moment to breathe, “I need it, I need you, I always need you!”
“ Good girl,” he tells her, meaning it completely. Hearing her beg does something to him in a way he can never describe. He kisses her hard , muttering, “Come for me,” against her lips as he works her clit.
It's entirely swallowed up in his mouth, but her frantic scream is all she can do as another merciless orgasm rips through her. Panting, shaking, Iz feels like she has to tap out, she has to, but if he isn't done-
"Enough," she finally begs, "love, I'm- going to- to fall."
He finally takes his hand away, other arm curled around her waist to hold her upright. Both of them are panting, shower hissing behind them. Slowly, achingly , he pulls out of her completely, minding how sore she might be.
And then the enormity of it all hits him–the fact that he pushed her to the edge repeatedly. He looks down at the bite marks on her shoulders, her trembling muscles, the bruises she’s inevitably going to have. “ Fuck, ” he whispers, free hand coming back up to stroke over her back as he gently manoeuvers her to stand. “You okay, Iz? Did I– Fuckin’ hell, did I hurt you?”
If he did –if he pushed too far, too much–he doesn’t know how he can even begin to apologise.
She's panting, ragged. "I'm ok," she promises, because she can't bear the thought of him hating himself for this. "I'm perfect, honest."
Simon pulls her against his chest, forehead pressed to hers, hands on her hips while remaining mindful of the bruises. “You sure?” he asks, voice pitched low like they’re sharing a secret.
“Promise,” she whispers, clinging to him. “Oh god. I missed you.”
“Missed you, too,” he mutters. His arms go around her, holding her close, relishing in the feeling of her being in his arms again.
“How about, we cut the water, save ourselves a huge bill, and go dry off before we lie down?” Iz murmurs.
He nods, then turns enough to reach behind him and shut the water off. It’s a short journey from the bathroom to grab some towels and then shakily make their way back to the bedroom, where Iz sprawls out on their massive bed with a groan of relief.
“You really did a number on me,” she breathes.
He stretches out beside her, arm over her waist, eyes fixed on her face. “That bad, huh?”
“Mmm.” She looks over at him. “You should do it more often. I like it when you stop thinking like that.”
“You like it when I don’t think?” Simon asks, deadpan. But he smiles regardless—small, but still there. There’s an old, well-worn familiar need to second-guess himself that he can’t quite tamp down, so he presses his cheek to her bare shoulder and runs his hand along her side. “You’d tell me if it was too much, though.”
Iz turns so she’s facing him. “I did,” she reminds him playfully. “I always do. I trust you.” Her smile turns into a grin. “But I also like the Ghost, honestly. Kind of hot when you scare me.”
“I can still scare you?” he asks, hiding his grin in her shoulder. “Didn’t know that was possible.”
“You’re still bigger and stronger than me,” she groans. “I used to hate it when men manhandled me and made me feel smaller, but I love it when it’s you.”
The idea of anyone touching her like that almost makes him see red, makes him bite down on the inside of his cheek until it stings. And then he thinks– How did she feel the first time I touched her like that?
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just resting his face against her shoulder and letting his thoughts get the best of him again. Maybe it’s the long come-down; maybe it’s all the stress of the mission finally released now that he’s at ease.
Iz knocks his forehead with her finger. “Oi,” she says. “Riley. Get out of your head. I can hear you thinking.”
He blinks, looking up at her finger, then huffs and mutters, “Wasn’t.”
That’s a lie. She’ll catch that in a second.
Iz leans in to kiss him, cupping his face. "I enjoyed it," she reminds him. "I've seen you torture people and I still wanted you to fuck me up the arse until I couldn't walk. When is that brain of yours going to realise, Simon Riley, I've got a thing for danger, and I have a thing for you?"
“Might need to take a few more hits before I’m convinced,” he replies, then tilts his head up to kiss her again. “A few more rounds in the bedroom, too.”
She grins. “Oh, I see how you're playing it. Smug bastard. Torment my feelings just so I'll put out.”
“Of course. Can’t have sex like that without some baggage, right?” He kisses her one more time, for luck, or for some kind of assurance, before resting his head back on her shoulder. Her skin is warm and fragrant from the shower, and he’d be completely content to lay like this forever.
Her eyes flutter shut even as she smiles softly, and Iz wraps her arms around him, breathing growing slow and deep.
“Welcome home,” she murmurs to him.